Arthur/History
}} History He awoke cramped and confined in darkness with searing pain. Agony induced rage fueled him and coursed through his body, but still he remained stuck in a wooden prison only inches from his face. Why did his shoulder feel so cold and wet? Confused and suffocating, he screamed and thrashed until finally a hinge broke and gave way. Maddeningly enough, all his might could only free the lid of his own coffin a scant few more inches -- not enough to escape. Fear gave way to confusion as he realized soil and dirt were not pouring through the open crevice, but rather, crisp night air. With even more questions raised, he gave a final, last-ditch effort to thrash about and break one more hinge. Surely, his toes were broken. His nails and fingers should have been bleeding. His neck and shoulder ached more than anything. Just... one... more... kick! Freedom! Were it not for the pain, he would have laughed and cheered for his momentary triumph. As soon as his hands made contact with the lid's edge, they recoiled, having discovered an unsavory amount of iron nails. They were so numerous he couldn't help but be offended that someone wanted him dead so badly that they would attempt to ruin all chances of escape. Exhausted, he more carefully lifted the lid of his coffin prison and spilled out into the night. His clothes were fine and proper, albeit now horribly wrinkled from his exertion. A darkened, deep maroon stained his undershirt collar and spilled out onto his sleeve. His hands shook as he brought them up to his face... still intact, he confirmed, and then moved on to the stain. It was cold and no longer seeping. Was he truly dead? Looking up to the waxing moon gave him no answers, absurd as it was to hope for them there. Instead, he hauled his aching body up onto his feet and inspected the wooden coffin. It was neatly engraved, with a name carved in bolded lettering. Who did this? And why here? He looked all around with night-adjusted vision. There was nothing but wild plants and a thick line of trees not far off. Was this still Tastania? Entirely alone, his shoulders shook with a deep, emotional breath. With nothing on his person but clothes, he inspected the inside of the coffin once more and found a few items presumed to be his belongings. Several pouches of smelly substances, a small journal, a few small keepsakes... . . . It took all but a month after freeing himself to confirm his fear that, somehow, he had been afflicted with vampirism. Even more frustrating than fighting to suppress the ever-present urge to drain the life out of any warm-blooded being were the absence of memories from his past life. With all the time that had passed, he only felt more distant to whoever he once was, and still had no answer as to why he was. At times, the loneliness is a blessing, and other times a curse. Arthur chooses to remain off the beaten merchant paths for his and others' safety. Should he be found guilty of murder, of either sentient or flora life, he fears the wrath and justice of the executive system of Tastania and the residents that may inhabit the woods nearby. It is a source of constant stress and has fueled his controversial studies of extracting the life essence of the various types of plants he cultivates in lieu of the natural tendencies of vampirism. Is one truly worse than the other? A cow over a being, a field over a cow... Over many, many years, his physical body has grown thin and ghastly. His eyes hunger ever more, and it's increasingly more apparent to him that he is losing control. It's been ages since he had been dumped out here. In the hundreds of years that have passed, a modest structure had been built in the very same pasture at the fringe of the mighty forest. A garden, more so a carefully cultivated field, spread throughout the visible area. One well-trodden path stamped the earth and thwarted grass growth around the premises. At first glance in daylight, it appeared no more than a very devoted herbalist's field. With nightfall, an eerie air creeps over the stalks and flowers of his various plants. Those traveling through would be lying if they didn't report seeing a pair of luminous eyes watching them from afar... quietly waiting and breathing in their passing scent even from a great distance. He lives in anguish, struggling to contain his vampiric urges while still maintaining the life of the non-sentient flora around him. It's a delicate balance to strike, even with centuries of magical and medicinal studies pertaining to the struggle under his belt, but it hasn't yet been met with complete success. Either portions of his garden completely die and wither, or wandering feral animals meet an unfortunate end... He prays both to Fate and to Titania for their understanding and forgiveness for his sins against the living. But something eats away at his insides that life as he has known it in Tastania is on very thin ice.Gen Arcadia - Arthur Manfred |} Plot References }} Category:Subpages Category:Histories